


All For Love and a Little for the Bottle

by st_aurafina



Category: Sanctuary (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a muggy, close June evening, Declan finally decides to clear out Watson's rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All For Love and a Little for the Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sanctuary porn battle. Thank you to grav_ity for the beta!

On a muggy, close June evening, Declan finally decides to clear out Watson's rooms. It's been a hell of a day. A mammoth beetle had found her way into the Sanctuary, and Declan had to pull house staff from other duties to help cage her. She's safe in the Arthropod wing now: angry as hell and missing a tusk, but her temper will settle. Declan, on the other hand, feels frustrated and humourless. Where did the damn thing come from? Co-incidence? A prank? This wouldn't have happened when Watson was in charge, but he had decades to establish that kind of trust with his people. Declan's had six weeks. He knows he's no comparison.

Covered in dust turned muddy with sweat, Declan swipes a priceless bottle of brandy from the cellar and breaks the seal with a defiant crack. Watson would be appalled – "That was an investment!" – and to placate him, Declan raises the bottle in a toast, and then brings it to his lips. Expensive brandy still burns on the way down, but it quickly lends a golden hue to the dusty gloom of the cellar. He sits on the steps, under the blinking green light of the hygrometer, and works hard on draining the bottle.

Nights like these, when it's too hot to sleep, he'd be invited up to Watson's rooms for brandy, polite conversation and – if the day had been frustrating – a languorous fuck on the wide four poster bed. Tonight, for the first time, Declan allows himself to miss the pleasure of that casual intimacy. He hasn't had time to think about sex, beyond a perfunctory wank in the shower each morning. Tonight, it is an unexpected absence.

This is how he finds himself at the double doors to Watson's – "James. Always James upstairs, my friend" – apartments, armed with half a bottle of exquisite brandy and some flat-packed cardboard boxes. It feels like an intrusion. Declan's never been up here uninvited. He shivers: the memory of a hand at the small of his back, another curling along the line of his jaw as James of the past ushers him into the room. He hoists the bottle and swallows down another fiery mouthful. It's too hot up here for ghosts.

"Okay. Let's get this done." He pushes the door open with his elbow and fumbles for the light.

There's a dead man lying on James' bed. Distantly, Declan notes the gleaming black keratin tusk protruding from the man's chest, and mentally edits his report to Doctor Magnus. The doors to the balcony are open; a large plastic animal crate lies in shreds on the polished floorboards.

If he wasn't pissed as a newt, he'd wake the household and get them investigating. It's hot, though, and he's already unpopular with everyone. This bloke isn't getting any deader. Declan sits on the bed next to him, takes another swig then grips the man by the shoulder. "I've no idea why you brought us the beetle, mate, but I'm sorry she killed you." He's quite good looking, this corpse.

He's ogling a corpse. Declan presses the brandy bottle to his forehead. He's been working too hard.

He props the bottle against the man's knee and pats him down. There's no ID inside the greatcoat, no way to tell how he breached the security system, let alone climb the walls with an angry mammoth beetle in a flimsy crate. There is a gun, though, in a well-worn leather holster. Declan takes that, checks the safety and tucks it into his jeans.

His hand hovers over the long, straight tusk. Declan has had enough of indignity today. He pulls it free from the man's chest; a little blood seeps from the open wound staining the torn edges of his shirt, but otherwise there's little obvious trauma. Still holding the bloodied tusk, Declan sits down suddenly on the edge of the bed. This late at night, in the heat, and half-pissed, his legs are a little wobbly.

He's pondering the tusk and what to wrap it in, when a warm hand slides over his backside. Declan moves before he realises what's going on, reaching for the gun tucked into his waistband. The man on the bed gets to it first. Declan is left pointing a blood-stained beetle tusk at a stranger who is now, very obviously, alive.

The man looks at the gun in his hand and the tusk in Declan's and affects a comedy leer, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "There's a punch line here, I'm just not sure if it's yours or mine." American, by his accent, though there's something odd in the pronunciation.

"What are you?" Declan is inanely proud of the fact that he hasn't dropped the tusk.

The man puts the gun on the bed and eases himself upwards with a hiss. "You know you're dealing with the Sanctuary when the first question is 'What are you?' I'm Jack. Captain Jack Harkness." He slips a finger into the hole in his shirt and probes the wound gingerly. "Call Watson, he'll vouch for me. I was coming to see him, didn't expect he'd have company." He spreads his hands appreciatively. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Oh," says Declan. He's caught off-guard: he thought he'd finished having this conversation weeks ago. "I'm sorry, mate. You mustn't have heard..."

"Damn." Jack frowns. "Are you sure?"

Ten years in the Sanctuary Network means Declan is unsurprised by this question – he's just seen this man come back to life, after all. He nods. "We're sure."

"Damn." Jack flops backwards onto the pillows, pats the mattress until his fingers brush the glass bottle. He looks at the label. "Wow. You better hope he's dead, if you're pilfering the good stuff.” He brings the bottle to his lips, and then hands it back to Declan, eyes hooded. "Care for a nip?"

It's hot and Declan's head is swimming. Every humid breath tastes of linen and dust; familiar and yet abandoned. This man – friend or enemy – knew James, knew this room, too. Declan puts one knee on the mattress, then the other, walking up the bed until he straddles Jack's hips. He takes a long pull on the bottle, and picks up the gun. Jack watches him with half open eyes but doesn't move.

Declan presses the muzzle into Jack's shoulder; watches his pupils dilate. "Why should I trust you?"

Jack's hands stroke the back of Declan's thighs, where the skin is sticking damply to denim. "You probably shouldn't. Trust wasn't what I had in mind."

Straddling Jack's body, Declan feels the rise and fall of every breath. Beneath him, Jack's hard; Declan barely resists the urge to grind against him, hurt him just a little, because he's yet another secret James kept from everybody. Declan is in charge of a house full of rooms to which he'll never have all the keys. Frustrated, he flings the gun away and pulls Jack upright with a fistful of hair. Jack's head tilts back and Declan works his teeth against the white skin of his throat.

Jack takes a hoarse breath and pushes against Declan's mouth. Suddenly they're tussling, thrashing hard against each other, teeth and hands tearing at skin and clothes. The bed, a wood and brass monstrosity, rocks and bounces over the floorboards. This jostles the lamp off the side-table, and broken glass skitters over the floor. The coverlet, which James always folded away at the end of the bed, is shredding beneath them. It's like they're both seeking to tear this room to pieces.

Jack is strong, but Declan's had plenty of experience immobilising animals – and he's on top. When the wrestling is done, he and Jack have come to a wordless agreement. Jack lies still but tensed beneath him while Declan reaches into the drawer of the side-table, scrabbling for condoms and surgical lube nicked from the labs downstairs.

Declan is far from gentle, but Jack gives as good as he gets. Any time Declan shows signs of slowing, Jack sinks teeth into his shoulder or curls his fingers into Declan's ribs until his nails break skin. Somewhere, Declan hears the solid thunk of a bottle falling, uncapped, to the floor. The smell of expensive brandy, sharp and volatile, floods the room and suddenly it's like James is there, silently watching them from the bedside. Declan comes with his mouth open against Jack's neck. Jack's not far behind him, his hand over Declan's, both wrapped around his cock.

The weather has turned by the time they collapse apart; and a wash of cool air from the balcony dries the sweat on their skin. Jack is the first to move; he throws his arm around Declan, pulling him close.

He presses a kiss to Declan's damp hair. "Well, that feels better. I guess we're done with the anger part of grieving. I always forget what the next stage is."

Declan is surprised by the warmth in this gesture. It wasn't the kind of fuck that usually leads to cuddling. Still, there's a looseness in his limbs now that comes from release of tension, and alive or dead, Jack _is_ a very handsome man. He stretches out, rests his head on Jack's chest. "Bargaining. The next stage is bargaining. I imagine you're pretty good at that."

Jack snorts softly, his fingers in Declan's hair. "If I didn't know better, I'd say James warned you about me."

"Ah, so you came here to bargain, then? This was a business call." Suddenly not so sleepy, Declan sits up. "No, actually, what were you doing, climbing over the balcony with a mammoth beetle in a pet-carrier? Don't you know how strong those things are when they're angry?"

Jack rubs his hand over the wound in his chest with a rueful expression, despite the fact there's just shiny pink skin now. "Well, it was an apology of sorts. James and I, we haven't spoken in a while. I thought I'd bring a present. Do a little ass-kissing. Soften the blow, if you like." He leers again, a brash twist of the lip that Declan is beginning to recognise as a deflection tactic.

"Why?" Declan puts his hand flat on Jack's chest, like he'd do to calm a wounded animal. It's not that he wants to know the man's secrets, but it seems important that Jack feel safe here. Sanctuary For All.

Jack goes quiet beside him, a kind of flat, exhausted stillness. "I have to get out of England. I don't think I'll be coming back. I was hoping James would…" He takes a breath. Declan doesn't move, barely breathes for fear of startling him. "I have to go, but there are things I can't leave unattended."

"Can I help?" Declan's getting the hang of it now. The kind of trust that James engendered carries over to the organisation he loved. These are Declan's responsibilities now.

Jack shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, he's oozing charm again, utterly in control. He props himself on an elbow and walks his fingers along Declan's naked thigh.

"So, how do you feel about babysitting a pterodactyl?"


End file.
